Stability
by Konstantya
Summary: It’s always a Thursday he comes in. [Kind of, sort of, almost, but not really, a RenoxTifa. If you squint your eyes and tilt your head and look through a distorted glass of water, it’s a RenoxTifa.]


**General Note:** I'm only going to reformat my fics so much when this site is the one at fault. So If the formatting is weird (like, say, there _aren't any scene breaks where there should be_), please check out my profile for more info. Thank you.

A/N: Just a strange little fic. Post-game (pre-Advent Children, if it has any correlation to Advent Children at all—which I don't like to think it does, but I guess I pulled some ideas from it).

Obligatory (but ultimately pointless) CYA: I don't own it.

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**Stability**

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It's always a Thursday he comes in. Always a Thursday, the last week of the month.

Tifa still hates him, still tells herself she does, still wishes he would find some other bar to frequent.

Tifa doesn't like Reno in the least. He drinks too much, smiles too cockily. His hair is too red and his clothes too rumpled. Tifa doesn't like Reno, yet in some strange, hateful way, she's thankful for him. He's steady in his unsteadiness.

Reno always drinks too much, always smiles too cockily, always has that ridiculous hair, and always thrives in sloppy wrinkles. He always comes in on the last Thursday of the month and always sits at the left end of the bar and always orders the same thing.

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-o-  
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He shows up unplanned, randomly, and Tifa never knows how to react anymore, if she ever did in the first place. She never knows what to say, if she should say anything at all. Sometimes he's tired, sometimes distracted, sometimes it seems he's even bored. Sometimes wearing sunglasses, sometimes not. Sometimes he shows up in a jacket, sometimes not. Sometimes with a tan, or a few blonder streaks in his hair, sometimes not. Sometimes he smiles a little, sometimes he just tries to. Sometimes she wants to throw her arms around his neck and hold him gently, sometimes she just wants her fingers around his neck, throttling him. Sometimes she wants to do both at the same time. Sometimes he looks at her and she wants to simultaneously sob and scream. Sometimes he won't look at her and she wants to do the same things.

He showed up on a Sunday morning, the second week of the month. Last time he came back in just over a week. The time before that it was almost two months. This time two and a half weeks have already gone by.

Sometimes she thinks she should call. Sometimes she thinks she shouldn't.

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-o-  
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Tifa doesn't like Reno at all, but she's thankful for him. Reno never silently shows up on a random Sunday morning, says a total of five awkward sentences, sleeps into the night, and leaves again for gods know how long. Even if Reno happened to need a place to stay for the night, Tifa would never offer him a bed, anyway. And even if she did, he would try to make sure that bed was hers, and if he did, Tifa would give him a black eye, kick him where it counts, and literally throw him out of her establishment. Tifa knows this, and knows she doesn't even have to lie to herself about it.

Reno swaggers in as he always does on the last Thursday of the month, takes a seat at the left end of the bar as he always does, and orders the same drink he always does.

Tifa pours the alcohol over a glass half-filled with ice, peripherally noticing that his hair is still obnoxiously red, his suit is still sloppily wrinkled, he still has his arrogant cocky air about him. Tifa still can't stand him, and, as she always does, she coolly slides his drink to him, then resumes her tidying up.

He reaches into his jacket for the gil to pay her and sets it on the bar top, as he always does, but this time Tifa pushes it back. One smooth, deft movement, wedged seamlessly in between the organization of her glasses.

He looks at her speculatively, but only for a moment. "On the house?" he asks, because he is always quick to pick up nuances, and he knows that something needs to be said, but nothing of consequence. Tifa nods curtly back, just once, down and up. Reno is no gentleman, never was, never will be, and he doesn't try to argue. He simply re-pockets the money, and, as always, slides into the new situation as naturally as breathing. He half-smirks, makes a remark in a half-joking suggestive tone as he always does. "Finally warming up to me?"

"No," she says, and the word is unhesitant, the sentiment behind it sure. "That's why it's on the house."

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A/N: I pulled the title from the Death Cab For Cutie song of the same name, though they really have no connection to each other (at least not intentionally—I was just getting some music ready and went, "Hey—that works. Really well. Sweet.") But the song is very mellow and instrumental (and 12+ minutes long), so it's good to read things to. Maybe it's good to read this fic to. Maybe those who try it can tell me. Maybe I should go to bed.

Reviews are never required, but always nice. Thanks much for your time, and peace.


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